Don’t Drink that Milk

     “The intricacies of our universe are mystifying. A mere pop, tinkle, and rush of pearly matter, and a new creation story is written. It is the big bang—the clash of worlds, the metallic clatter, and the door slams on our origins forever. We seek out our creator—but if he does exist, he is barred from our sight by a frigid, impenetrable door. The door is representative of our own limitations, and is forever looming before us. It is black and menacing, and whispers to us in an icy hum of shining, unreachable places. Every so often, we believe we have finally overcome our meager faculties and have witnessed the light. Then the door slams again. The face of God cannot be rendered by any hand, and the mystery of whom we are remains unsol—OUCH! Arlo, you slime-brain…you made me lose my train of thought,” said Dewman.
     Arlo was slouched in a deep-seated lounger across from Dewman. He was a lithe specimen, his body streamlined and sleek. His limbs were fluid and seemed in constant motion. Dewman felt a little seasick whenever he looked at Arlo. Now he felt the familiar churn as he eyed the zap-gun in Arlo’s hand.
     “Quit screwing around, damnit, I’m trying to discover the secret of our universe…you know, why we’re here and all that jazz,” said Dewman. He wiped his forehead and smeared a clammy trail of ink.
     “Awww, c’mon, I’m only buzzing you a little. It’s on the lowest level. It shouldn’t even hurt. Soft-belly. You need to take a break from all this creationism stuff, man. Enjoy life, brother. Enjoy the world around you. You’re never making it through that door of yours. Might as well quit trying,” said Arlo.
     Dewman turned his back on his friend. He almost had it. He was sure of that. Millions had gone before him, trying to figure out the key to life, to happiness, to success. And he had come closer to anyone who had ever tried. That was something he could feel vibrating through him, an inexplicable certainty. People like Arlo would never understand the work he was trying to do. Dewman sighed.
     “Dewman, Dewman, get off your fat sludge-hole and come out with me tonight. There’s a party on the island. Chicks galore, dude. All of them hot as hell. This is the kind of hot that wipes out everything else, man. You need a break. Come with me, just this once,” said Arlo.
     Dewman thought about his friend’s offer. He was close to his epiphany, to be sure. And Arlo wasn’t the best companion for these sorts of gatherings. He always managed to root out every toxic substance within walking distance, and consume most of his findings (he saved some for later, when the hangover was the worst). Dewman usually ended up dragging his friend down some parasite ridden stairs past all the city’s bacteria and scum. However, this particular party was on the island. The Island, as it resounded in Dewman’s head. The Island was where she lived. Brishley Bartwater, the most beautiful creature in the tri-county area, and Dewman’s soulmate. He knew she was meant for him the instant he saw that she used Pentley and Barsman pens, the only writing utensils he would think of touching. Dewman knew this the way he knew that the day changed to night. He knew it the way he knew he would discover the inexorable truth about life.
     Arlo hustled Dewman out the door. Once leaving the house, cluttered with books and tape recorders and empty Darbury Bar wrappers, the world swung into a raucous bustle of activity. A street dancer was on the corner, pounding the pavement to the rhythm of a nearby basketball game. Vendors lined both sides of the avenue, their voices rising over the murmur of passersby in a sweaty wail. Heat rose from the fresh produce in waves of silvery vapor. The sun bleached the yellow fruit, making it look sickly white, like something had drawn out its life-blood. The smells of the outside overtook Dewman, and a wave of nausea passed over him. He walked a little faster. They were almost to the dock now, and to the boat that would take them to The Island.
     Dewman boarded the ferry first, followed by Arlo, who slid onto the deck with a lazy grin. He sidled over to Dewman, who was looking out over the bay. It curdled with choppy white foam and glints of light darted across the waves.
“Man, it is damn beautiful, isn’t it?” Arlo said.
     Dewman didn’t hear. He was focusing on The Island growing ahead of them. The sand and vegetation were an expanding sponge, bursting from tiny flecks of color into full fruition. He was jarred out of his reverie when the boat slammed into the shore.
     The light, pleasant smell of tropical fruit permeated the air, interwoven by strains of jaunty string instruments. The party was in full swing.
As Arlo and Dewman incorporated themselves into the crowd, it began to rain. Everyone swung together in a wild, vicious dance. The wind picked up, swirling around the partiers, lifting skirts and tossing hats. Through the chaos, Dewman spotted Brishley Bartwater. The rain clung to her hair, the strands around her face whipping her cheeks into a heated flush. She walked silently over to Dewman and placed her hand in his. They merged into the primal throng, and he wrapped himself around her. The world seemed to slow. She brushed her hair out of his eyes and pressed her lips gently to his. Dewman felt everything spinning. The dancers did not slow. Everyone became a huge blur, a Picasso of sensuality and color. He stumbled away from Brishley and murmured,
     “I’ve got it. I’ve finally got it. The meaning of life, the secret of the universe, the key to everything is—”
     Before he could finish, a great white wall of liquid rushed towards him. The party was wiped out in an instant, and before he went under forever, he felt the sky give way.
     Somewhere not so far away, about one minute before, Tom Angelo sat at his kitchen table with a glass in his hand, pondering the meaning of life. He swirled the liquid nonchalantly, watching how it splashed against the sides. The refrigerator door slammed behind him. His roommate, Andrew, looked over his shoulder.
     “Gross, dude. Don’t drink that milk. It’s got fungus or mold or something growing in it. Geez, a whole colony could live in there and you wouldn’t even notice. Get your head out of the clouds. Start enjoying life,” he said.
     Tom shrugged and walked over to the sink. He dumped the milk down the drain, and sat back down. He was close, closer than anyone before him. He knew it.